


Lame-o

by mambo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:37:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a late night, Bucky "Human Disaster" Barnes sends a rude note to a partying neighbor.</p><p>Except he has the wrong neighbor.</p><p>Now he has to make it up to the tenant of apartment 107, that guy who always wears really tight shirts in the mailroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lame-o

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Lame-o](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7552399) by [Pearlson613](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearlson613/pseuds/Pearlson613)



> This is another fic that probably should be in the Tumblr prompts collection but I'm rebelling. The prompt for this fic was "I was deliriously tired last weekend and thought it was you making all that noise so I wrote you a rude note stating that you can’t get away with being noisy just because you’re super hot."

_To the resident of apartment 107:_

_Kindly SHUT THE FUCK UP. Jesus fucking Christ! It’s bad enough that you work from home and only go out to get your mail in those really fucking tight t-shirts doesn’t mean you can just invite every person you know to your tiny apartment with thin walls and ruin everybody else’s night. You may be hot and popular but I don’t give a shit!_

_At least play something_ good _. Your obsession with The Red Hot Chili Peppers disgusts me._

_\- Your neighbor_

 

——

 

Bucky feels really bad about it in the morning.

Mostly because it was apartment 109 making the noise.

(He knows this because he watches as their landlord unceremoniously _kicks their asses out_ on Saturday morning, since they’ve done nothing but trash the place since they moved in.)

Bucky needs to move now, right? That’s the only course of action. He’s gotta leave forever, and never think about this place or his neighbor’s pectorals again. Even if they’re really nice pectorals, so thick and juicy that they practically need a bra—

No Bucky. Stop your sinful thoughts.

When he finally drinks enough coffee to fuel his body after the night he had — working well into the morning on Stark’s new energy-efficient city greenhouses, which are awesome, but also take a lot of his overtime hours, followed by the loud party from hell — he quits surfing Zillow for new listings, and heads down to the mailboxes.

He thought it would be safe.

“Morning,” 107 says as he walks in behind Bucky.

Bucky jumps, dropping his stack of mail, making an undignified noise that sounds like, “Nuargh.”

“Sorry!” 107 says, dropping to his knees as he gathers Bucky’s meager pile. He hopes there’s nothing embarrassing in there. (Of course, his latest issue of _Popular Science_ is on top of the pile with _Smithsonian Magazine_ below. His cover is blown, and now 107 knows that he’s a huge nerd. Fuck. Well, it’s not like he was gonna fuck him anyway, but it would have been nice to maintain the illusion.)

(He also tries not to notice how 107’s shirt is a little baggier than usual, and if that’s Bucky’s fault, he’s done the world a disservice.)

“You don’t gotta—“ Bucky starts, cornered between 107 and the mailboxes, but 107 is already straightening up with Bucky’s mail in hand.

“Not a problem,” he says as Bucky takes it. Their hands brush. Bucky has to resist the urge to flinch.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Y’know,” 107 says, rubbing the back of his neck. His biceps flex as he does it. Life isn’t fair. “I’ve seen you down here a bunch of times but I don’t think we’ve actually been introduced. I’m Steve Rogers.” He reaches out a hand, which Bucky shakes with his mail-less hand. Steve’s biceps flex while he shakes. Life _really_ isn’t fair.

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

Steve smiles. “Great to meet you.” Bucky expects him to just move around him to his mailbox, but he keeps talking. “I’ve just been thinking about it, and I don’t really know my neighbors. I mean, I’ve lived here for over a year and I never knew your name!”

“Yeah, modern society. No swings on porches or anythin’.”

Which is the dumbest thing Bucky has ever said.

But Steve just nods, thoughtful. “My ma married someone who lived on her street, and my grandma married a guy who lived three apartments over. I don’t even know who lives next door to me.”

“Well, uh, you do now?” Bucky says, trying not to think of wedding bells.

Steve smiles. “I thought you were next door, but I wasn’t sure. You hear that party last night?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, so loud.”

“Just obnoxious,” Steve agrees, shaking his head. “Though I hope they have a place to go.”

“If they’re rich enough to trash apartments, they can probably afford to get a hotel room until they find a new place.”

“Probably,” Steve says. He pauses, then adds, “Well, I should get my mail.”

“Oh, sorry,” Bucky says, moving out of the way. “It was nice, uh, chattin’ with you,” he adds before making his way towards the exit.

“Hey Bucky?” Steve calls, just as Bucky is about to make his way out. Bucky turns around, dreading whatever it is that Steve’s about to say. Steve ducks his head, looking almost shy. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, backing away from whatever it is this is. “I won’t.” Steve smiles and nods, and Bucky power walks back to his apartment _hating his damn life_.

 

——

 

So Steve knows. Bucky is sure of it. What other reason would he have for cornering Bucky like that? He knows, and he’s trying to let Bucky know that he knows, and Bucky just wonders what Steve’s endgame is.

Which is why he finds himself making his mom’s old recipe for lemon drizzle bundt cake that afternoon.

Well, to be frank, Bucky actually makes _three_ lemon drizzle bundt cakes, but the first two didn’t come out right, which is why he stands at Steve’s door with his third cake, wishing he could evaporate the moment after he knocks.

It only takes a few moments for Steve to open the door, and…

Oh, thank God. He’s back in his tight shirt.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, looking at his face, then down to the cake.

The cake, which Bucky unceremoniously thrusts forward. “Hi Steve, do you want this cake?”

Steve looks at the cake, now presented to him, then back up at Bucky. “What?”

“This cake, I had an extra. I was supposed to visit my aunt today, but she cancelled, so I have an extra cake. I made it.” He pauses, then adds, “I promise it wasn’t poisoned” since Steve may think it is because of the note and everything.

Steve chuckles. “I wasn’t thinking it was, but now I am.” He smiles, then takes the cake. “Thanks for thinking of me, Bucky. This smells delicious.”

“It’s lemon drizzle. My mom’s recipe.” Bucky can’t help but preen a little — his mom is a great baker, and while it’s probably nowhere near as good as hers are, he thinks he did a passable job. “But it seems a shame to give it away. Are you sure?”

Bucky nods. “Yes, definitely. I…” He tries to find some kind of excuse. “I made another for myself,” which isn’t totally a lie, if he thinks about the two smoldering piles of cake sitting on his counter.

“Still, can I tempt you into having a slice? Maybe with some coffee?”

And go into Steve’s apartment, where he probably has the note waiting so he can confront Bucky?

No ‘effing way.

“Oh, uh,” Bucky starts, glancing away, then saying, “That’s real nice of you, but I gotta meet my aunt.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “Your aunt?”

“I mean, my other aunt. She lives in town. She heard about my other aunt cancelling.”

“Do you want to give her this cake, then?” Steve asks with a concerned expression, holding the cake back out.

“No!” Bucky exclaims, then says, quieter, “No, she’s allergic to lemons.”

“Alright,” Steve says, pulling the cake back with a smile. If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d think that Steve almost looks excited at the prospect of keeping the cake. “Then I won’t keep you. Thanks again, Bucky.”

“No problemo,” Bucky says, sounding like a real lame-o.

“I’ll see you around,” Steve says.

“Yup!” Bucky says before heading back into his apartment and shutting the door.

 

——

 

He realizes once he’s inside that he’s supposed to be out, and Steve will probably be able to hear him making noise, and then know he was lying about his allergic-to-lemons aunt. So he walks around only in socks and doesn’t flush the toilet for the next six hours, just in case. Because cooking would make noise, he eats the burnt cake for dinner.

Bucky Barnes is a Very Important Engineer at a Very Important Company and…

His life is a huge fucking mess.

 

——

 

Just when he’s about to go to bed, Bucky notices a white envelope on the floor near his door. Someone obviously slid it under, and Bucky’s heart sinks. He should just ignore the letter, maybe burn it, but instead he finds himself heading towards it, picking it up, and opening the envelope with shaking fingers.

 

_Dear Bucky,_

_I wanted to thank you for the cake. I don’t remember the last time I ate something home baked, and it was delicious. I may have already eaten most of it for dinner._

_Thanks again, and I hope I can reciprocate some time._

_Best wishes,_

_Steve_

 

Bucky stares at the note, then up at the door, then back down to the note.

This is a sign — Steve knows what he did, and the note is Steve saying that Bucky is going to have to try harder.

Apparently the cake wasn’t enough to placate Steve. He’s going to have to figure something else out.

 

——

 

Bucky brings him an orchid he picks up on the way home.

Steve gives him another heartfelt, handwritten note.

Bucky gives Steve some fresh cherries from the farmer’s market.

Another note.

Running out of ideas, Bucky makes him a _mix CD_.

Steve writes him a letter describing his feelings on each of the songs, and suggesting some music for Bucky to listen to (Steve doesn’t have a CD burner, or he’d make Bucky a CD, too).

Nothing Bucky does is _enough_ , and he’s getting tired of spending all his time trying to figure out new apology gifts. So he decides to make one final, grand gesture — something that will either make Steve forgive him, or let Bucky know that he really needs to find a new place to live.

 

——

 

Bucky knocks on Steve’s door, feeling fidgety and awkward. He holds two paper tickets in his left hand, shoves his right into the pocket of his slacks. This was probably a dumb idea, but this is the sort of all-out gesture that will end all of this nonsense. He fucked up, he’s sorry, Steve’s milking it for all it’s worth, and it’s probably worth two tickets to a Broadway show.

(Albeit, somewhat shitty tickets to not _Hamilton_ , but he’s an engineer, not a magician.)

“One second!” Steve calls. Bucky fidgets some more, wishing Steve would just _get here already_ and put him out of his agony. It takes another few seconds, but Steve opens the door. He’s wearing one of his obscenely tight t-shirts, and Bucky wonders why he was ever born. “Bucky! Hey!” he says with a smile.

“Are you busy Friday?” Bucky asks.

Steve’s eyes go a little wider, his smile gets brighter. ‘No!” he chirps. “No, I don’t think I am,” he adds, a little more calm. He won’t stop smiling though, and Bucky hopes these finally wipe that smug grin off his face.

“Here,” he says, taking the tickets and shoving them towards Steve. “They’re not great seat, but it’s _An American in Paris_. You said you like forties music, right?”

Steve looks down at the tickets, takes them gingerly from Bucky’s hand. “Wow,” he says, looking them over. “I really wanted to see this.” He looks back up at Bucky. “Do you wanna grab dinner beforehand, or does that conflict with work?”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “What?” he asks.

“Dinner before the show?” Steve asks. “There are a few places in Hell’s Kitchen that do those dumb touristy pre fixe menus.”

Oh.

“You don’t gotta go with me,” Bucky says. “These are for you and whoever you wanna take.”

Steve’s smile falls. “You’re just giving these to me?” he asks. Bucky nods. “Bucky, I can’t accept these.”

Bucky slumps against the wall. “ _Please_ ,” he begs.

“Don’t you have someone you want to go with? Or you could sell them back—“

“No, no,” Bucky says, “I got these _for you_.”

Steve is just looking at him with big confused eyes. “That makes no sense, Bucky.”

“Yes!” Bucky exclaims, losing patience, “It does!”

“ _How_?” Steve asks, seeming like he’s finally about to lose his patience.

“The note!” Bucky says, exasperated. “The stupid fuckin’ note that I wrote the night 109 threw that fuckin’ blow-out.”

Steve’s eyes go wide, mouth open just a little. “ _You_ wrote that?” he asks.

“Of course I did — who else would’ve?”

“I had just assumed it was Dr. Zola from down the hall.”

Bucky pauses, thoughtful. “Alright,” he says, “That’s a reasonable assumption.” Dr. Zola is pretty creepy, almost everyone agrees. “So you didn’t know it was me?” he asks. Steve shakes his head. “Fuck,” Bucky says, almost deadpan then, “ _Fuck_ ,” with a little more feeling.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Steve says, “It’s not like I was actually making the noise.”

“For the record, I was exhausted when I wrote that. It was three in the morning and I had been at work until two — on a _Saturday_ — so I was feeling pretty loopy.”

“So you really think my shirts are too tight?” Steve asks, plucking the fabric of his shirt, a shit-eating grin appearing on his face.

Bucky turns an aggressive shade of red. “I’m not dignifyin’ that with an answer.”

“From the way you checked me out in the mailroom, I didn’t think you minded all that much.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide as the color drains from his skin. “I was… Uh…” He clears his throat.

Steve laughs, a bright sound. “Wow,” he says, “And here I was thinking you were going through the weirdest courting ritual I’d ever seen.”

“Courting?” Bucky mutters. “This isn’t the fourteen nineties.”

“Well,” Steve says, tilting his head a little, smiling at Bucky, “Now that we have that cleared up, I think there’s one thing you could do for me.”

“What’s that?” Bucky asks, dreading whatever it is that Steve is about to say. Probably something really embarrassing, like walking through the mailroom naked, or going to Dr. Zola and serenading him. Bucky would do it — he’s that mortified about this entire situation.

“Pick the restaurant we’re going to before the show this Friday.”

Bucky stares at Steve, blank.

“I have a terrible time choosing,” Steve starts, then adds, “That is, if you’re free on Friday. You may have another aunt to visit.”

“They’re all out of town,” Bucky finds himself saying.

“So it’s a date?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “Sure.”

 

——

 

Bucky thought no look could be better than Steve in his little athletic shirts.

He was wrong.

Because Steve is _devastating_ in a suit.

Steve is standing in his doorway, smirking in his blue suit, like he knows exactly what Bucky’s thinking.

“Ready?” Steve asks.

“No,” Bucky admits.

Steve laughs. “C’mon,” he says, “At least it’s not a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert.”

Bucky snorts out a laugh and Steve closes and locks his door, and Bucky thinks that maybe the most embarrassing mistake of his life could lead to something really, _really_ good.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me at whtaft.tumblr.com.


End file.
